I woke up this morning to the sound of a guitar. Not a tinny electronic radio kind of guitar, but real, in-the-flesh strumming floating up to my ears from somewhere close to me. I thought it was part of a dream, at first, but when I was finally pulled from my flying over the ocean on a magic carpet dream I realized that it was real (or, as real as you can get at 11 in the morning). After searching under my bed and inside my colset for the mysterious music, I looked out my little window and saw a scruffy hippy-ish man wandering down the street with a guitar in his hands, strumming up a storm. No singing, just guitar. He didn't live in the neighborhood or even stop to see anyone nearby, he was just...playing. It was wonderful! I've never been lulled out of sleep so magnificently. I wanted to run outside in my flimsy pyjamas and hug him but I don't think he would have wanted that. Instead, I named him the morning man and left him alone. I hope he comes back.